


Something DIfferent

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Cobb never seems to tell Arthur that he's beautiful/pretty/attractive/whatever when they're having sex [or just in general, if author prefers]. So, through some plot device [or just Arthur's awesome brain power] Arthur realizes this and goes about changing his appearance in several comedic [or serious] ways. So, 5 times Arthur changed his appearance so Cobb would notice, and 1 time Cobb told him he was beautiful just the way he is. Or, you know what, it doesn't even have to be a 5 fic, it could just be a normal fic in which Arthur changes his appearance to impress Cobb, I won't be picky."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something DIfferent

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m just a pretender to the throne.  
> Notes: Set post Inception. Pre-slash and slash.

“Huh. . . .”  
  
Arthur looks up from his laptop, frowning. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”  
  
Still lingering in the doorway of their workspace, Cobb’s mouth opens, then shuts when nothing more intelligent than another  _huh_  wants to come out. Arthur rolls his eyes and goes back to his work with a huff.  
  
Cobb enters the room proper placing his briefcase on the nearest flat surface. Without taking his eyes off Arthur, he feels in his pocket for his totem. “So,” he says casually. “You’re blond, now.”  
  
Arthur gives him an opaque glance.  
  
“Just thought I’d try something different.”  
  
“Huh,” Cobb says.  
  


2

  
  
Cobb doesn’t miss the blond when it’s gone.  
  
Even if he’d liked the color—a brassy golden-brown—shortly thereafter, Arthur gets an earring.  
  
It’s nothing ostentatious or showy, just a small emerald stud in his right ear—the significance of which isn’t lost on Cobb, either.  
  
“That’s new,” he notes as they wait for their elevator to arrive. Arthur glances at Cobb with wry eyes.  
  
“Actually it’s old. I used to wear it in college, before the army recruited me.”  
  
The elevator  _dings_.  
  
“Emerald’s your birthstone, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
The doors open, revealing many men with many guns.  
  
The earring is forgotten.  
  


3

  
  
Arthur doesn’t  _do_  denim.  
  
So when he shows up to Cobb’s thirty-seventh birthday party—a quiet affair that includes Miles, Phillippa, James, and Ariadne—wearing tight, low-slung hipster jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black denim jacket, Cobb leans on the door, staring and wishing he had his totem handy.  
  
“Who are you, and what have you done with Arthur’s suits?” he asks bemusedly. Arthur actually _blushes_. His thankfully dark hair is a tousled mess and he’s holding a bread box-sized present.  
  
“Happy birthday,” he says gruffly, seeming flustered. “I left the receipt in the box.”  
  
Cobb rolls his eyes. “C’mon in.”  
  


4

  
  
“Lemme at least help you with the dishes, Cobb,” Arthur says after the party.  
  
“You don’t have to.” But Cobb knows it’s futile. Once Arthur’s got it in his head that something needs doing, he sees it through without pause.  
  
So, Arthur loads dishes, and for a minute Cobb merely stands there, gaping.  
  
Each time Arthur bends over, the low-slung jeans pull down a bit and the tight t-shirt pulls up a bit, leaving Cobb dry-mouthed and speechless.  
  
Since it’s only partially revealed, Cobb can’t divine what it is, but one thing is irrefutably clear:  
  
Arthur . . . has a tramp-stamp.  
  


5

  
  
“Oh, Dom.”  
  
Laughing at the almost comical distress on Arthur’s face, Cobb staggers back into the suite, flopping down on the sofa. On the coffee table are two empty bottles of champagne.  
  
“Aren’tcha gonna wish me happy anniversary, Arthur?”  
  
Sighing, Arthur steps into the room and shuts the door. He comes to kneel next to Cobb, compassion standing out bright and terrible in his eyes. . . .  
  
Cobb reaches out and caresses Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur shivers.  
  
“You and Mal have the same eye color?” Cobb asks, confused. Arthur turns his face away.  
  
“They’re contacts. I’ll get rid of them,” he promises grimly.  
  


6

  
  
One day, Cobb gets to their workspace earlier than usual, and finds Arthur fast asleep on his side, on one of the reclining deck chairs, an open magazine on his chest.  
  
He’s still wearing yesterday’s suit (sans jacket) and it’s a little wrinkled. Yesterday’s tie is loosened, yesterday’s collar is sticking up, and yesterday’s shoes are on the floor next to the chair, with yesterday’s socks balled up in them.  
  
Arthur’s feet are narrow, high-arched, with long toes. His ankles are bony.  
  
And he’s  _snoring_.  
  
Making his way over to Arthur on quiet feet, Cobb simply watches him sleep for awhile—until Arthur snorts and rolls onto his back, revealing the left side of yesterday’s hair, mussed and flattened from being slept on. He looks totally ridiculous and absolutely. . . .  
  
“Adorable,” Cobb murmurs wonderingly, and Arthur’s eyes fly open. A bare moment later, the magazine is sliding to the floor and there’s a DS22 Derringer pointed at Cobb’s chest. Arthur’s finger is tightening on the trigger—  
  
“Fucking  _Christ_ , Cobb!” he yawns after a few moments then tucks the Derringer back into his shoulder holster. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”  
  
“I wasn’t  _sneaking_ , Arthur. You were sleeping like the dead, and sawing so much wood, you wouldn’t have heard a marching band come in,” Cobb says, grinning. He drags a chair over and sits, watching as Arthur starts smoothing his hair into its usual slicked-back perfection. Then he straightens tie and collar, as well. In seconds, but for the odd wrinkle in his suit, he looks as pulled together as usual.  
  
“It’s intimidating, how you quick you can do that, you know?”  
  
Arthur  _hmms_ , and buttons his vest. “Do what?” he asks absently, sitting up and making a grab for his shoes and socks. Cobb blocks said grab with his foot, earning himself a bleary glare. “Ha-fucking-ha. Quit fucking around and gimme my shoes.”  
  
Cobb ignores that, and instead snatches the magazine from where it’s fallen. It’s a clothing magazine—of course; Arthur only reads two kinds of magazine: guns and ammo or clothing—and each and every model in it is wearing leather. Suits, jeans, coats—even  _shorts_.  
  
Shuddering, Cobb pitches the magazine over his shoulder.  
  
“Asshole, I was reading that,“ Arthur grumbles, sitting up. But Cobb puts a hand on his chest to stop him from getting up then runs his finger down the perfect knot of Arthur’s tie. Smiling a little, he re-loosens it and unbuttons the first button of Arthur’s shirt. Then the second. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him, intent and piercing, and when he hesitates, Arthur’s hand covers his own. “Cobb— _Dom_ —“  
  
“Shhh.” Cobb eases his hand out from under Arthur’s and reaches up to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair . . . before mussing it up. And because of yesterday’s gel, his hair sticks straight out in every direction.  
  
Then he musses it some more. Through it all, Arthur sits there looking at Cobb as if he’s gone mad.  
  
“There’s a point to this, I’m hoping,” he says tightly when Cobb sits back to admire his handiwork. Arthur looks like a nattily, if sloppily dressed porcupine.  
  
“The point is,” he begins, leaning in again, till mere inches separate their faces. Arthur’s eyes are dilated, and his breathing is quick and light. He’s biting his lower lip and staring at Cobb’s. “You’re beautiful the way you are, Arthur. You always were. I’m the idiot for taking so long to notice just  _how_  beautiful—never mind the clothes, the hair, the earring, the contacts—the goddamn  _tattoo_ —”  
  
“You  _saw_  that?” Arthur blushes, and Cobb does the same.  
  
“I . . . yeah. But you don’t need any of that stuff. You’re perfect as is. Okay?”  
  
Arthur meets his eyes and opens his mouth to say something . . . then closes it in favor of leaning a little closer. Cobb’s leaning closer, too, only partially aware he’s doing so. Even this close, he can just barely make out the brown of Arthur’s eyes, they’re so dark.  
  
“You gonna follow all that sweet-talk with a kiss, or am I gonna have to start buying leather suits?” Arthur breathes, and each word is a puff of moist air on Cobb’s lips. Cobb smiles a little, wry and hapless.  
  
“Well—“ he pretends to deliberate for a moment then yanks Arthur forward by his skewed tie and into an open-mouthed kiss. Arthur surges into it with a soft moan, his hands coming up to cup Cobb’s face. At first the kiss is a frantic clash of teeth and tongues, but it soon mellows into something slower and sweeter. The kind of kiss Cobb had forgotten even existed.  
  
“For the record,” Arthur pants when Cobb lets him up for air. He punctuates each word with a brief feather-light tease of a kiss. “I’ve had the tramp-stamp since I was eighteen. I keep thinking I should get it removed, but . . . I never do. Call it a souvenir of a misspent youth.”  
  
“Okay,” Cobb murmurs, swallowing Arthur’s self-decprecating little laugh with another kiss. But something’s been plaguing his daydreams for months, and more frequently than he’s ready to admit. “Out of curiosity, what’s it a tattoo of?”  
  
Arthur leans back and searches Cobb’s eyes for long moments before smiling, and something in that smile makes Cobb’s heart beat faster.  
  
“Oh . . . you’ll see,” Arthur promises, his eyes flashing heatedly. “ _Soon._ ”


End file.
